


Kartoffelpuffer

by LittlebutFiery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:39:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlebutFiery/pseuds/LittlebutFiery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a pregnant Gaby has strange food cravings, Illya can't bring himself to say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kartoffelpuffer

“Illya,” a quiet voice broke through the still darkness of the Kuryakins’ apartment.

Illya rolled over, his even breathing interrupted by a soft huff, but he refused to open his eyes. The voice repeated, more insistent, “Illya.”

“Mm,” Illya mumbled, rolling over again to face his wife. “What?”

“I’m hungry,” Gaby mumbled plaintively, snuggling close to Illya.

Illya sighed, though he affectionately pressed his lips to Gaby’s hair. “You’re always hungry, Gaby.”

“Yes,” Gaby acknowledged, smiling into Illya’s shoulder. “I _am_ eating for two, after all.”

There was a weighted silence as Illya tried to fall back asleep. Gaby, still smiling blissfully, wriggled even closer to her husband, her large belly pressing against Illya’s stomach.

He smiled, putting a gentle hand on her stomach, despite knowing exactly what she was doing. Illya let time hover for a moment, preserving everything about the scene in his memory, before he sighed, “What do you want, dear?”

“Kartoffelpuffer,” Gaby replied without hesitation.

Illya sighed again – leave it to Gaby to want something complicated and time-consuming to make. He rolled over, looked at the clock, and moaned, “Gaby, it is 3 in morning.”

“Please, Illya?’ Gaby pleaded. Despite Illya’s heavy sigh, he slipped out from under the covers and started to head downstairs.

There were worse things, Illya decided, as he washed and grated potatoes to make Gaby’s craving du jour. He remembered watching his mother making syrniki at a similar time of day, but for whatever man she was sharing her bed with, not her life with. The child in Illya still tried to avoid cooking as much as possible – the smell of his mother’s cooking had become so intrinsically linked with her horrible suitors that he never made baked foods if he could help it.

But this time, the smell of cooking food didn’t remind him of the soldier who had beat him, or the official who had locked an 8-year-old Illya out of the apartment, or even the propaganda minister who had threatened to send him to the gulag with his father. No, this time it smelled like something he didn’t think he’d ever know again.

Family. Love. _Joy._

It was with a smile on his face that he flipped over the patties sizzling in the pan. As much as he loved the little sleep he got, he would give it up in a heartbeat to see Gaby smile.

Three in the morning had turned into four by the time he headed back upstairs, a plate piled high with little potato cakes in his hands. Gaby was asleep again but stirred at the smell of the kartoffelpuffer, smiling sleepily at him.

“I didn’t think you’d actually make them,” Gaby mumbled.

“I will always do what you want,” Illya replied sincerely, setting the plate down on the nightstand and handing Gaby a napkin and a glass of water. “Even make your potato cakes at three in morning.”

“Hm. I’ll keep that in mind,” Gaby smiled coyly as she took a cake off the plate. She bit into it and hummed with delight. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Illya asked with false offense, knowing she was in a playful mood. “I slave over these for an hour. Not bad?”

“You’re not German, love,” Gaby smirked back. “It won’t ever be quite right.”

Illya sighed, not sure where to take the ‘argument’ and too tired to try. Instead, he simply climbed back into bed, starting to fall back asleep while Gaby munched on her snack.

His eyes had just closed and he was on the brink of sleep when he heard a quiet, “Illya.”

“Yes, my love?” he asked lightly.

“Could you make me some sauerbraten?” Gaby asked, that pleading tone in her voice that prevented Illya from saying no.

Illya sighed.


End file.
